


Don't Let Go

by Who_Dat



Category: Football RPF
Genre: England National Team, M/M, Tottenham Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Dat/pseuds/Who_Dat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's on this tightrope they walk, the fine line between best friends and lovers. </p><p>They can't help but teeter from time to time.</p><p>~ </p><p>In which Eric and Dele don't know what they are, until Iceland comes along and changes that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> ~•   
> So, the Iceland game. After Hodgson decided to play Sterling over Vardy I completely gave up on England. I was cheering so much when Iceland scored, really love them as underdogs. Anyway, Hodgson's a moron and the players threw in a pretty heartless performance, particularly in the second half. Dele's dive in the box made me ridiculously angry, but all that aside little fic. Not 12,000 words, it'll do.

The butterflies build up in his stomach with every kick of the ball. He's not used to it, all these nerves. It's not like him, he's usually cool calm and collected, especially with football.

Except football just might be what's getting him so nervy.

Even if it's just football, the game he fell in love with as a kid and never looked back on.

It's not just football anymore.

It's knockout football.

Dele loves France, even if he can't speak the language or navigate the streets. It's calm, peaceful. Mixed with the buzz of tournament football and it's like a drug, a drug he's not ashamed to admit he's addicted to.

He wants to win, wants to win so bad he'd be willing to sacrifice his limbs if it came down to it. Even if they're not a favourite, not by a long shot, he wants to lift the trophy for all the world to see. Kind of one of those 'in your face' moments. It sounds childish, but he can't help it, hasn't been a man long enough to get that sort of thought out of his brain.

Eric's far more calm about the whole thing. _'England's player of the tournament,'_ that's what all the pundits are saying. Dele's proud, proud that Eric finally gets his chance to shine. Far too often Eric seems perfectly content to reside in Dele's shadow, catching him before he falls. Now's his moment, and he's taken it in stride.

He's not going to tell Eric, but he's pretty happy they aren't coming up against Portugal, unless they happen to meet in the finals, but he's skeptical, and that's putting it lightly. Eric's practically Portuguese. He's honestly surprised he hasn't tattooed the Portuguese flag over his heart yet.

Back when Dele first joined Spurs, Eric used to talk to him about Lisbon, about Algarve, about how brilliant it all was. Unfortunately Dele's about as cultured as a brick, so it's no surprise those talks stopped almost as quickly as they started. He kicks himself for that, not being exactly the type of friend Eric deserves. He's a bit of a perfectionist, but still, Eric deserves practically everything.

He's surprised when Eric asks him if he wants to watch the Portugal game together. They've spent most of the afternoon watching film on Iceland, playing style, danger men, the whole lot. But Eric would never miss Portugal, Dele's just surprised he wants the company.

He practically sprints to Eric's room. He thrives off their alone time. Too often in this tournament the other boys have limited their time together. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a tad possessive of his best friend at times, just likes to let people know who Eric really belongs to.

He's just about to knock when Eric opens the door and invites him in. The rooms simple but elegant, not to mention identical to his own, aside from the fact it's been kept far neater. Eric's a bit of a neat-freak, at least when it comes to his things.

Dele flops down on the bed, staring at the large flat screen mounted on the wall. The game hasn't started just yet, so he takes the time to get comfortable, tangling himself in the covers before turning to face Eric, who's rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"Just make yourself at home..." He mutters, lying down on the opposite side of the bed. He tugs some of the covers away from Dele's clutches, but the start of the match postpones that ensuing tug of war.

"Where's your Sporting kit? I thought you'd be going all out Diet. Where's the flags and face paint? Not doing Portugal proud, are you?" Dele pokes at his side, causing Eric to flinch, he's pretty ticklish.

"I don't need the boys burning my stuff."

"So you're just gonna have to do it the old fashioned way, huh? Give Cristiano a nice big smooch through the T.V if he bags the winner?" He's giggling now, causing Eric to shove at him so hard he nearly falls off the bed.

"Why did I invite you in here again?"

"Because you love me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

It turns into a comfortable silence. Dele unconsciously scooting closer to his friend, so close their hips touch. Eric sighs at the contact, his eyes flicking from the screen to the spread out Dele beside him.

"What's up with you being so touchy today?"

"What do you mean touchy?"

"Can't keep your hands off me touchy."

"My hands aren't on you."

"Half your body is though."

"And you're complaining?"

"Nope, just wondering."

The serious facade over the conversation suddenly lifts with Eric bursting into giggles. Dele almost immediately follows suite, Eric's laugh is by all means extremely contagious.

"Why are you laughing so much mate?" There's still laughter in his voice as he watches Eric wipe the tears from his eyes. Eric tends to laugh till the point he's teary, meaning he should calm down soon.

Eric doesn't respond, sitting himself up and smoothing his hair out. The T.V screen seems to draw his attention back, leaving Dele sprawled out rather awkwardly.

He sits himself up, crawling onto Eric's lap. Eric grunts at the sudden weight, but allows Dele to get himself into a comfortable position before resting his hands on Dele's muscular thighs.

"Are you trying to break my legs?" Eric asks teasingly, squeezing Dele's left thigh in a playful manner. He leans his chin on Dele's shoulder so he can still get a good enough view of the match.

"Maybe." He leans back against Eric's chest, yawning. It isn't his type of game, pretty boring at the minute, but in football that can all change in the blink of an eye.

Eric adjusts Dele, pushing him down a bit so his head can rest on his chest. He grazes a hand through Dele's mop of hair, Dele nuzzling up against him in response.

"Sleep, I'll wake you up if anything interesting happens." Eric's voice is soft, his hand sliding back and fourth through Dele's dark locks.

"No..." Dele whines. He sounds like a toddler, but he doesn't want Eric to regret inviting him.

"You're really something, aren't you?" He can tell Eric's smiling down at him, like some bloody angel. He really wants to look up, but he knows that'll kill the moment. He enjoys their moments, so he'll stay put, thank you very much.

"Only when I'm with you."

Eric's arms snake around his waist, fingers slowly creeping their way under his shirt.

It's on this tightrope they walk, the fine line between best friends and lovers. They can't help but teeter from time to time.

This time the silence is far more tense. They both know they shouldn't be touching like this, but neither will end it. Eric's the one to break the ice.

"That could be me you know?" His eyes are back on the screen, glued to the players in green, the players from his spiritual home.

"Why...?" He's never understood why Eric chose his birth home over his 'real' home. Eric speaks of Portugal so highly, while he barely bats an eye at the splendour of London, and complains about the weather so often it gives Dele headaches. He gets that Eric had to come back here at some point to test himself at club level, but he could've done it, could've lined up alongside Ronaldo and Co., and never looked back. Yet here he is.

Dele feels way too grateful for that.

"What do you mean why?"

"Why are you not playing for them?"

"Because someone needs to carry you around all the time." He's only joking, but that's been the case far too often lately, especially during this tournament.

"I'm being serious."

"It just felt right, I don't really know how to explain it."

"... Do you regret it?"

"I don't regret anything that has to do with you."

His hands rest on Dele's narrow hips. Dele feels unnaturally hot, squirming restlessly on Eric's lap.

"I like being with you, I'm home whenever you're next to me."

Dele wiggles his way around to face Eric, his dark eyes meeting Eric's peaceful blue, smile curling across his lips.

"Me too."

~

Pathetic.

That's the only word that comes to his mind after the Iceland game.

Pathetic from him, pathetic from the team, just downright pathetic.

He feels ashamed, yet furious with himself, with his teammates. They're practically the biggest joke of the tournament.

It's Iceland.

Iceland.

They're never going to live this down.

His eyes are practically red. He really doesn't want to cry, but this was his dream, and now it's all gone, buried under an endless heap of humiliation.

He hates it.

~

"Are you mad at me?" His feet hang off Eric's bed. Ever since he's taken refuge in Eric's hotel room, his eyes have been glued to his feet, as he refuses to say a word. He's almost positive that he's said less than a sentence since the end of the match.

He knows football is cruel, but cruel is an understatement for this.

Still, Eric asked him a question, and the last person he can be mad at is Eric, who did everything asked of him and more.

Eric doesn't deserve this.

Doesn't deserve a bottler of a best friend like him.

"No..." It comes out quietly, but the rooms too silent for Eric not to here him.

He feels Eric glare without even raising his eyes, body tensing up instantly.

"You're still mad about the game." It's not a question.

"How can you not be?"

"I'm mad, fuming, but what was going to come of all this? If we'd won and thrown in another of those performances, France would've eaten us alive, what's the point?"

"Everything's the point! The entire country thinks we're a joke!" His voice is starting to raise itself. Eric can't honestly be serious, it has to be his anger talking.

"They'd think we're a joke unless we won the thing. Did you honestly think we could win Dele? Don't fucking kid yourself, you can't be that naïve."

It feels like a slap in the face.

Dele raises his eyes to merely gape at Eric, not a single word falling from his lips.

"You can't be serious. Dele have you seen our squad compared to some of these teams? We don't belong on the same pitch. You can't honestly be childish enough to think we had a chance. I hate to break it to you, but you're not some kid playing for Milton-Keynes anymore. You have to face reality at some point, so wake up."

Dele can't move.

This isn't real, it can't be.

This isn't Eric, the one who makes Dele beam with the slightest bit of banter.

This is a stranger.

A cruel stranger.

He runs, doesn't look back.

Because he really can't face it anymore.

~

The plane ride home brings a whole new wave of troubles.

Because Eric is seated next to him. Any other day he'd be delighted, but right now he'd rather be latched onto the wing of the plane rather than face Eric.

He covers his ears with a pair of oversized headphones, twisting his body so it faces the window, keeping as much room as possible between the two of them.

No music plays though, he doesn't want anything to distract him from the absolute disgrace that he is.

"I'm sorry Dele." It's quiet, yet he hears it crystal clear. He still refuses to accept it, one single word isn't enough for all that anger.

"Sorry for not choosing Portugal." He doesn't mean for it to come out, but from the corner of his eye he can see Eric's body go completely still.

"You take that back right now."

"I'm not taking it back if it's true."

"It's not true!"

"Oh yeah? Then why don't you tell them all what you said? Even if I'm some naïve little kid I can tell you'd rather be there."

They're glaring at each other now. It's a new feeling for them, hatred.

"We'd be there if you decided to show up."

He can't counter that. Can't counter the fact it's completely true. That doesn't explain why his eyes begin to well up with tears. He curls up, burying his head in his hands as the tears fall. It's so embarrassing, but he's an embarrassment, so why does it even matter?

Eric deserves better, deserves so much better, and he's finally seemed to realize it. Now he'll go off to Bayern or somewhere, where they've got proper players, not bottlers like Dele, playing in front of him.

He must not want to make a scene though, not in front of their solemn teammates, because he pats Dele's back gently, giving him a quiet "shape up."

He's not sobbing, at least he doesn't think so. He's just teary, teary to the point his eyes may stay permanently red.

He's really disgraceful.

"Dele, you need to stop crying, everyone's trying to get a look at you."

"Let them. Maybe they can spit on me too, give me what I deserve." He doesn't know if Eric can even understand him, but that's what he thinks.

"Dele, you're being too hard on yourself."

"You just said-"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I keep hurting you, I'm just so angry, and I keep throwing the blame around. It's not your fault Dele, I swear it's not."

He doesn't say anything, partially because he doesn't think he can talk, and partially because he doesn't know if Eric's being genuine, not after all those words.

Eric doesn't seem surprised with the lack of reaction, gently sliding his hand up and down Dele's spine.

"It's all gonna be okay..."

God, how he wishes those words were true.

He lefts out a sniffle, the waterworks seemed to be stopping. Still, he can't get up, not now, not ever.

Eric's strokes suddenly stop, he's probably back to being angry with him now that Dele's done making a disturbance.

That's when he feels Eric's finger make a short vertical line down his back, followed by another, then a circle, and then a 'V' shape. It's about then he deduces that these must be letters. An 'e' is next and Dele's on the edge of his seat before the 'you' even comes.

'I love you.'

Those little words wash all his doubts away. Because he loves Eric, knows Eric loves him too much too let him down.

He doesn't ask for permission to latch onto Eric's hand, giving it the most affectionate squeeze he can muster. He holds it like it's his lifeline, the only thing keeping him from falling into the pit of despair he just barely managed to pull himself out of.

He knows at some point he'll have to let go, abandon his fears and face a nation in outrage.

But for now he'll hold onto Eric, his rock, his everything if he really thinks about it.

He doesn't think he'll ever be ready to let go.

Because Eric always keeps him steady, but as soon as the cameras click in place, it's up to him to keep up his balancing act of emotions.

And for the first time in a long time...

They just might topple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
